


Turned On Its Head

by fiendish (nothingbuthopeful)



Series: Greenest Where It's Watered [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Feelings of Inadequacy, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, bottom!Derek, this will get angstier and sexier i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:37:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbuthopeful/pseuds/fiendish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You want me to touch you, <i>except</i> for your dick?"</p><p>Stiles just... likes people. That's his thing. He likes people, and they don't always like him back.  It's just the way things are; he's accepted that, until he gets to watch Derek flush and flounder when he finds Derek's glow-in-the-dark dildo. He's pretty okay with the whole unrequited-attraction thing, but then Derek asks, "Did you want to see?" and Stiles' world is turned upside down. He really, um, <em>ohmygod</em>, <em>wow</em> does he need to make sure that happens again. Soon. </p><p>Trouble by pterawaters from Stiles' POV, and the intro to a sequel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Trouble](https://archiveofourown.org/works/542818) by [pterawaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterawaters/pseuds/pterawaters). 



> If you’re going to read this, then you really, really need to read pterawaters’s fic “Trouble”. Seriously, LEAVE NOW AND GO READ IT. Please. I guarantee hers is infinitely better than mine will be, but hopefully I at least wrote it so that there’s continuity and it makes sense. Everything that happens in this fic will make _infinitely_ more sense after you read "Trouble".

Stiles has always been pretty  _comfortable_  with himself. He says what he wants, does what he wants, pants after whomever he wants, wears whatever he wants... Totally chill. No hangups. Nothing for him to worry about whatsoever.

Hah. Who is he kidding?

For all his put-upon confidence, Stiles is a realist. He's self-aware enough to know that he doesn't have the swoon-worthy handsomeness of Jackson, with his chiseled everything, or the sweet, beguiling nature of Scott, with his crinkled, smiling puppy dog eyes. Stiles is actually, honestly kind of fucked up. That's never been news to him. He goes looking for  _dead bodies in the woods,_  for god's sake. He runs on Adderall and curly fries and a perpetual haze of attraction to everything homosapien. So, I mean really, who  _would_  want him? He's pretty sure the answer is no one, and he's pretty okay with it.  _  
_

Comfortable.

 _Comfortable_  is why he's always been okay with being irrevocably in love with people like Lydia or, more recently, Derek, who are perfect and beautiful andout of his league. It's not like he'll ever  _do_ anything about his infatuation, so why not indulge himself? _Comfortable_ is why he didn't bat an eye when, in sixth grade, he woke up with a mess in his boxers and lingering thoughts of the broad shoulders of the boy in front of him in history class. It's not like any of the girls would return his feelings, so why not lust after a few guys, too?

He just... likes people. That's his  _thing_. He likes people, and they don't always like him back, and that's just the way things are.                                                                                   

* * *

So when Derek says, "Did you want to see?", Stiles' world turns on its head. 

Derek's so completely strung out on the thought of getting off in front of Stiles that he pants _,_  of my fucking god he  _pants_ ,when he tells Stiles that Stiles can choose stay or go but that he's going to fuck himself on his dildo either way. 

This is... Stiles never bothered to entertain thoughts about whether or not his feelings, lustful or romantic, were returned. They just _wouldn't be_ , and that was a given. But here's Derek, fumbling in his bedside drawer and tearing off his clothes, his cock a hard, visible line across the hip of his jeans. Here's Derek, letting Stiles see a part of himself that he's pretty sure no one else has ever seen before. He's letting Stiles see his ridiculously huge (and hugely ridiculous) glow-in-the-dark dildo. It glows. That's a thing. Stiles wants to laugh, but...

Derek's hard. And he wants to  _fuck himself on his dildo while Stiles watches._

Most of Stiles' fantasies involving Derek focus on Alpha dominance. I mean, those red eyes and broad shoulders and that fucking  _tattoo_ , god, who wouldn't want to get pinned down and used by someone so powerful, so capable? No one. No one with half a brain, that's who. Stiles can't even count the times he's jerked off with his face pressed into the pillow or with a hand on his throat. He doesn't remember coming harder than that time he was home alone and gagged himself on his boxers, pretending they were Derek's fingers, imagining the way Derek would say, "Shut up, Stiles." 

Yeah, fuck, that was awesome. He had a knee-jerk reaction to that phrase for nearly two weeks after that particular afternoon to himself, and he almost embarrassed himself too many times to be completely normal.

He's brought out of his reminiscences by the soft moan coming from the direction of the bed, and yeah, Stiles can definitely think about his fantasy Derek another time because real-life Derek has two fingers in his ass and  _holy fuck,_ "Oh, god! Oh, my god, Derek!" 

Stiles is definitely on board with this whole new submissive-alpha-presenting-his-ass thing. He's so on board that he's figuratively walking on plywood. He's never been more on board with anything in his entire life, he's pretty sure, and it only takes a couple touches of Derek's hand to the front of his jeans before he's coming  _in his jeans_ , while Derek's completely bare-assed, and wow, is that embarrassing. _  
_

Stiles thinks he'll be embarrassed later. Maybe.

* * *

It's later, and Stiles is definitely not embarrassed about creaming himself like a teenager for two reasons. One, he  _is a teenager_ , and two, Derek's ass was so thoroughly stretched and red and  _hungry_ around that dildo that any person with an ounce of testosterone in their system, male or female, would probably have come just from watching alone. Stiles is pretty proud that it at least took some hand-to-fabric-to-dick contact for him to come. Thank god for small mercies.

Stiles just wishes that he got verbal confirmation from Derek about how they were "so doing that again," though, because Derek has been noticeably avoiding interacting with him since then. 

He kind of misses getting slammed against walls and told to shut up, because while that would certainly not be on par with their fuck-hot sexual encounter, it would still be _something._ This _nothing_ , this lack of interaction with Derek on any level whatsoever? Totally not okay.

Stiles had been doing such a great job convincing himself that it was just sex, too. It was two people getting each other off, just two people fulfilling necessary bodily functions. They just so happened to be doing it together, with a toy. No biggie. It was decidedly _not_ a mind-blowing, life-altering experience at all, no sirree. It definitely didn't get to Stiles' head that Derek opened himself up for Stiles, allowed Stiles to crawl into his ass and his body and his mind to fill him up. Derek is a fucking Alpha Werewolf, for Pete's sake. Okay, not Pete's Sake. No Peter. Not while thinking of Derek's pink, perfectly puckered asshole. Derek is a fucking Alpha Werewolf, for Ptolemy's sake. Derek probably has a  _knot_ to  _breed baby werewolves_ for all Stiles knows. It doesn't get any more alpha male than that, literally. But Derek trusted Stiles enough to put down the mantle of Alpha for those few perfect minutes and just  _let go._ That... Stiles tries not to think about that part too hard, because it makes his diaphragm spasm and his lungs ache in a way that probably isn't healthy.

Three weeks after he fucks Derek with the (glow-in-the-dark) dildo, Derek is so on edge that the entire pack has noticed. 

"Dude, what the fuck did you do to Derek? I think I healed three broken bones on my way over here just from this training session alone. Fix it. He hasn't shoved you in weeks. Just... I don't know, dude. Make him shove you or something. It can't possibly be that hard!"

Scott's suggestion left a lot to be desired, but it was better than Jackson's.

"Derek growls whenever anyone says your name. Maybe you should go to NYU just so we don't have to see your skinny ass every day. Make _my_ life easier, that's for sure."

Stiles isn't stupid, so he knows this has a little something to do with the fact that he's only been legal for a couple months and a little to do with a certain blonde huntress. She-who-must-not-be-named will fuck with Derek no more, not from her grave, not if Stiles has anything to do with it. So he approaches this whole post-sex-something (whatever the hell it was) as one would approach a spooked animal backed into a corner: with extreme caution.

He figures it's time Derek came to him for once. Opening his window just a bit, Stiles decides to tempt Derek to Casa Stilinski. If he's punishing himself like Stiles thinks he is, then he hasn't let himself come for nearly three weeks. His eyes have been bleeding red more often than strictly necessary, and he refuses to so much as  _look_ at Stiles whenever they're in the same vicinity. But if his wolf is itching to let loose, then his restraint is probably pretty shot, too, or at least that's what Stiles hopes. He's  _so fucking glad_ that his dad has the night shift tonight, because it means he can be as loud as messy as he wants. With the window open. So Derek can hear it and smell it and practically taste it on the air, if Scott's descriptions of Allison's shampoo are anything close to were-reality. 

Even though he knows he's going to be a sweaty, sticky mess in short order, Stiles likes to start with a clean slate. He hops in the shower, fondling himself liberally and using the really, really nice body wash that he used to save for days he would study with Lydia. It lathers into a thick, frothy layer, and  _oh, shit_ , yeah, that spot behind his balls is seriously enjoying this, jesus fuck. He's a little reckless for his own good, too, and thinking about the fact that Derek  _might_ come to his room later makes him want to feel the drag of the razorblade he uses just for nights like this, when he wants to tease and torture himself into madness. On purpse. Because Stiles is still fucked up, and god does it thrill him to have a little something on the line, a hint of danger to tempt him just enough.

And oh, _fuckkk_ , _ohmygod_ , the drag of the blade along his balls is so fucking perfect,  _shit._ If he slipped, he'd have a problem, but he knows his fingers are a little too talented for that, and he replaces this blade regularly to make sure it's not rusty or dull or nicked, so  _wow_ is his sac smooth now. He feels a low thrum of arousal curling in his gut, simmering just above his pubic bone and making him breathe raggedly. His left hand comes up to play with his cock, thumbing the slit and tracing around the edge of the head, lightly twisting and teasing as his right hand squeezes his balls just this side of too tight and pulls down, away from his cock. Yeah, he really needs to be done with this shower. Like, five minutes ago. _  
_

* * *

It's 2:36 am, now. He's just come out of the most recent post-orgasmic haze, and the face of his alarm clock comes into focus as he looks up from where his face was smushed onto his forearm and the pillow, spittle pooled on it as though he's been sleeping for hours. He hasn't slept a wink because he doesn't want to miss it if Derek can't hold back much longer. He's _come_ three times in two hours, though, and he's pretty sure he just set a record for the amount of precome he's ever dribbled just from playing with his cock while thinking about Derek's imperfectly perfect one. Stiles thinks about the fucking foreskin, holy shit, and he tries to imagine what it would feel like if he had foreskin, what Derek feels when he touches himself, and oh, god, if it feels anything like Derek's lips had felt he think he might be in heaven, or maybe purgatory, because he's seen Derek come apart but he doesn't see Derek in his bedroom yet, and that's just the worst kind of hell. 

Stiles has never been more glad that he's a teenager, though, because while he knows that little fact is twisting Derek's conscience into knots at the moment, it means he's still got some oomph left, just in case Derek changes his mind or something. 

And then it hits him... Words. 

He hasn't been holding back a single sound that wrenches itself from his lips like he usually does. When all your friends are werewolves, they can already smell the hormones and jizz on you, and come on, can't a dude keep  _something_ to himself? So he keeps his noises to himself. He figures they'll be his secret, and he can hear them echoing in his head even when he doesn't vocalize them. But tonight... Yeah, Scott and Jackson can just deal with it. Little shits. He  _knows_ Derek's been teaching them to pull back their hearing strategically, so he can wail on them if they say anything.

So he's been making all the noise he usually doesn't, but he hasn't  _said anything_ yet. He tries to think of all the sexy things he could say to Derek, or about Derek, or about himself and what he wants to do to Derek, and yeah, fuck, the palm of his hand feels so fucking good on the underside of his dick as he twists with the backhand grip that always brings him  _so close_ but never quite there. He thinks about how Derek's fingers might feel in place of his.

"God,  _Derek!!_ "

As soon as the words leave his lips, he hears the slide of the windowfollowed by the heavy thud of werewolf on his carpet. Mmm, that was  _definitely_ the right thing to say.

He looks up to see that Derek has a death grip on the windowsill, claws out and eyes red, clinging to the wall as though it could hold him back. Fuck that, dude, he didn't do all this just so Derek would give himself a complex. 

"Do you want to watch?" He uses Derek's words, determined to resurface the memories of their first encounter of the super-hot-and-super-sexual nature.

"I... You had your jeans on. Last time." Derek chokes out the words as though he's a walking telegraph, as though he has to physically force them from his lips.

"Yeah, thanks for that, by the way. I'd be embarrassed about creaming myself, but I'm so _not_ embarrassed _at all_ because that was basically the single most unexpectedly great thing that has ever happened to me in the history of ever. No jeans now, though, and you're more than welcome to look your fill of Little Stilinski."

Derek raises his eyebrows, and yeah, those eyebrows definitely speak sign language or something, because Stiles can practically  _hear_ the unspoken, "Really, Stiles?"

"Dude, you have a glow-in-the-dark dildo. I'm allowed to name my dick. It's not even that bad, seriously, Scott calls his Wolverine, for god's sake!"

Cue cringe. On both parts.

"Stiles. Shut up."

 _There it is._ Turns out that particular phrase can still turn him to mush, and he lets out a whimper as his hand flies to his cock. A manly whimper, shut _up_.

"Sorry, sorry, I know, just,  _god_ get over here already, or did you just come over so you could lock yourself in my closet?" And damn, he's so desperate for Derek's touch that he could kick himself for not taking the opening of "shut up" and responding with a snarky "make me" like he's imagined so many fucking times already. _  
_

Derek moves so fast he practically flies to the bed, but as he sits on the edge, he looks so lost. He's so unsure of himself, still, even though Stiles basically just sent him a gold-embossed invitation.

"Stiles, you... It's cut."

Oh.  _That's_ why he's hesitating. Ugh, fuck his entire life, of  _course_ he's cut and Derek's not, so of  _course_ it's weird to Derek.  _Fuck._ He sits up, and the hand on his dick reaches up to scratch at the back of his head, instead.

"Yeah, still kinda pissed at my parents for not asking me first, because I'm sure baby me could have protested somehow. Sorry, I--"

"No, I-- It's just, different. Nice. Don't be sorry."

Oh. Well, um. Okay. That's, okay, Stiles can do this. He can totally do this. Breathing in and out is probably a good idea.

Derek's claws are still out, digging into his own thighs instead of Stiles' sheets, and he's going to have to thank Derek for that later because he definitely can't afford new sheets right now. Or he can thank him by giving him permission to stop mauling himself... Yep. There's his new plan. Maybe his dick will finally get more than some solo action.

"Do you want to feel it?"

"I can? You'd let me?"

He would usually tease and say something sarcastic like, "No, dude, I left my window open so you could torture yourself into an aneurysm. Hands to yourself." But Derek still has that _look_ about him, almost like if he does anything wrong then his world will shatter, like he's breaking the rules. Which, come on already.Stiles is already legal, so he can make his own rules about this, thanks. But Derek just asked his question with a  _disbelieving tone,_ so he's probably better off with a direct approach. He's not an idiot. He kneels up so that he's leaning just barely over Derek to say what he wants next.

" _Y_ _es_ , I'd let you. Duh."

And oh, wow, he can literally _watch_ Derek's face change. The eyebrows don't exactly smooth out, but they do switch from self-flagellating and frustrated and unsure to something more... is that expression _hungry_? Did he just lick his lips? He-- he totally did, YES!! Oh god, Derek Hale just  _licked his lips_ while  _looking at Stiles' dick_. This is getting written down somewhere, for posterity, jesus _fuck_. Stiles is one hundred percent positive that he's the luckiest motherfucker on the planet. He's seen this face before. This is Derek's hunting face, the one that says he's caught the scent and will stop at nothing to find his prey.

Stiles is also one hundred percent okay with the fact that this makes him the hunted party here. Game on.

Derek's fingers are surprisingly soft. For some reason Stiles had been expecting manly callouses and stubbly, dirty fingernails because Derek is basically a woodsman or something, and he probably does the maintenance on his own Camaro, for fuck's sake, but Stiles guesses werewolf healing must mean no dead skin for callouses. He's totally going to kick himself later because his fantasies could have been so much more vivid if he had just used some common sense on that front. But,  _fuck, holy shit,_ Derek's fingers are better than anything he could have imagined and so much better than his own fingers, so he's just going to stop thinking and enjoy this now, thanks.  _  
_

The fingers touching his dick are surprisingly hesitant, too, and he would really like to wrap his hand around Derek's and show him how he likes it, but it turns out he _really_ likes this, too, and he'd never have the patience to touch himself this way. Barely-there brushes of dry fingertips along throbbing veins aren't usually his style. He's more of a spit-slick-and-messy, jerk-himself-to-the-edge-and-then-back-off kind of guy, but  _ahhhh, GOD, fucking hell,_ that fingertip only  _just_ tapping his slit also feels pretty damn good, so he's just going to let Derek do his thing. _Jesus_.

"Stiles, look at me. Please."

Oh, whoops, didn't mean to have closed his eyes there. But lord help him, if Stiles looked at Derek while he was doing his magic finger trick thingies, he'd have shot his load far too soon for his liking. That already happened once, so he's determined not to let it happen again, damnit. Twice and he  _would_ be embarrassed. Embarrassed is something Stiles Stilinski long ago decided he would never be. Awkward, sure. Embarrassed? Nope. 

"Open your eyes. Now. Fuck, Stiles..."

Oh holy mother of god, okay, eyes are open now. Shit. Um, he had a train of thought somewhere, but Derek is dragging two fingers down along the raised underside of his dick, squeezing his... corpus spongiosum?... between them and pressing just right along his corpus callosa, and  _fuck yes he's totally going to pass his anatomy test next week_ if he doesn't pass out from pleasure first.

Derek makes a noise reminiscent of a snort in the back of his throat, and whoops, looks like his mouth is on autopilot. But really, he was going to come if he didn't think about science, because Derek doesn't look like he thinks any of this is actually funny. He looks like he's about to come any minute now, his mouth hanging open and his eyes glassy as he pushes Stiles backward with a hand on Stiles' hip and the other on Stiles' dick, and really? Derek expects him to bend like this?

"Okayyyy, Derek, I'm not supernaturally flexible or anything so give me a second to situate myself here, geez."

Derek grunts impatiently, wrapping one arm around the backs of Stiles' knees and the other around his lower back to toss Stiles effortlessly onto his back. Stiles' cock slaps against his stomach when he lands and twitches near-painfully because this is more like the Alpha Derek he hasn't been able to get out of his head for ages now. He leans up on his elbows to get a better look, because Derek's ass is in the air as he leans toward Stiles now, drawn inexplicably to Stiles' clearly less impressive dick. Derek's cock is completely hard, outlined against his dark worn jeans, and he's got one hand on Stiles' hip and the other on his dick as his hips undulate ever so slightly forward, the round globes of his ass peeking out the waist of his jeans and showing some mind-boggling dimples at the base of his spine. Clearly he's aching for it, and Stiles thinks his brain was just used for atomic fission or something, because this cannot  _possibly_ be his reality right now.

"Stiles... Your cock...Can I..?"

Oh my god, Derek sounds so wrecked, and he hasn't even taken off so much as his leather jacket. His shoes are on Stiles' bed now, and seriously? Gross. "Dude, at least take the shoes off. Preferably take everything off, but I mean, I'll take what I can get here, to be honest."

"You didn't answer my-- Can I? Please? You smell so good, Stiles, _shit,_ you've smelled good all night but I didn't know you wanted... until you..." 

Derek's eyes close as he toes off his shoes then presses his thumb against the head and trails it through the drips of precome that have been drooling from Stiles' near-purple head. Stiles can't function, can't think properly, can't work through what Derek's even asking him because his blood is nowhere near his brain anymore.

"I can't read your mind, Derek,  _shit_ , do that again ohmygod,  _please_ , what do you want? You can have anything you want if you just keep doing that, fuck  _yesss--"_ Stiles cuts off on a choked groan that sounds painfully ridiculous and awkward to his own ears, but Derek just whimpers and leans further forward at the sound.

"I want to-- Can I taste you? Sorry, I just, you smell so good, and--"

"Sorry?!?! Are you fucking serious, holy shit, put your mouth on me  _please_ , I can't believe you want-- I didn't even think you'd--  _hah, nnnngh,_ jesus mary mother joseph also john the baptist, I am _so_ going to hell _, fuck, your mouth is heaven, keep going, please, Derek..."_

Derek purses his lips around the raised edges of Stiles' head, swirling his tongue around the exposed skin underneath and catching on the raised frenulum. He starts jacking Stiles' shaft in his hand in earnest now as he suckles the head of Stiles' dick, and Stiles thinks is brain is going to short circuit because Derek's ass is still in the air and his cock looks painfully confined by his jeans and the rough zipper. He reaches over to undo Derek's pants, to let him out and lessen the painful pressure he's all too familiar with.

Derek growls (fuck, that feels so good on his dick), and grabs Stiles' wrist, his claws pressing into the soft skin on the inside of Stiles' forearm but not breaking it, his other hand still squeezing Stiles' cock and pressing it against Stiles' stomach as he holds himself up. 

"Derek, dude, doesn't that hurt? Can't I just--"

"No! Don't. It does, but it's... It's good. This is just for-- I want to do this for you. Please."

Derek _wants_ to get Stiles off. Derek actually wants to do this? Stiles is certain now that he's in an alternate reality. Derek releases his hands, and he can't help but run them through Derek's sleek black locks, arching and falling back onto the bed when Derek groans and turns his head into the contact. 

" _Fuck,_ Derek, you can't  _say_ shit like that!! I'm not going to last, oh my god. I'm so fucking close; you need to back off if you want this to last more than ten fucking seconds, Derek."

Derek keeps twisting his hands along Stiles' dick when he looks up, completely debauched, to say, "I don't want to back off, Stiles, I want you to come,  _please_ Stiles, I need you to--" _  
_

And that's it. That word, _need_ , sends Stiles over the edge, his vision turning splotchy with patches of white and black and  _Derek,_ and he can't believe that he even has any come left in his balls but he's coming so fucking hard... Derek hums and swallows Stiles to the base of his dick, and if Stiles thought Derek's ass looked pink and hungry around the dildo, it's nothing compared to the slick-hot feel of Derek's red lips stretched around his cock, gagging only slightly as Derek frantically yanks his jeans down. Holy god, there's nothing under those jeans but  _Derek_ , and Stiles' cock twitches helplessly at the thought. Derek's dick looks raw where the zipper had abused it (Stiles had  _offered_ to fix it, so he doesn't feel  _too_ badly about that, definitely not...), and Derek uses the come he didn't swallow to slick up his fingers and reach around his back to his ass.

Oh my god.

Stiles feels like he's still coming, his stomach clenching convulsively even though his dick is clearly spent and soft in Derek's mouth. He watches Derek frantically try to fuck himself on his fingers and devour every drop of Stiles' come, and the sight of Derek sucking his cock hands-free is so mind-boggling, so absurd, that he barely suppresses a fond chuckle, gasping raggedly in a mockery of a laugh instead. Stiles remembers where Derek's prostates is because it was burned on his brain three weeks ago, and he knows Derek won't be able to reach it at that angle from around and over his ass instead of under, where the pulled-taut crotch of his jeans blocks the path his arm would have taken.

"Derek, let me-- You won't-- Oh, just _hold on,_ for fuck' sake."

He grabs Derek's hair and yanks the sloppy-wet, red mouth off his dick, scrambling around to take over for Derek. Stiles noisily shoves two fingers into his mouth and pushes them into Derek's ass under Derek's own straining fingers, and _holy shit_ he forgot how greedy Derek's ass is. He stares, slack-jawed, as Derek's ass practically sucks his fingers in to the knuckle, and he presses down on Derek's prostate relentlessly as soon as he passes it. He remember's Derek's grinding motion, the little udulations of his hips, and opts to keep a slow, strong, steady pressure against Derek's prostate, pressing in tight, tiny circles around the point of pleasure rather than using his fingers to fuck in a sweeping in-and-out motion.

Derek is breathing in quick, shallow pants now, catching his breath and choking on thin air with every press of Stiles' fingers. He falls onto his face, ass still in the air, when he reaches around with his other hand to spread his ass for Stiles. _H_ _oly fuck Derek is spreading his ass for Stiles, is this real life?_

"Yeah, look at you. Holy shit, you feel so perfect, Derek. So fucking needy and perfect around my fingers, _god."_

"Don't stop, Stiles, _please_...", Dere says, and his hands are shaking against his ass with the effort of both stretching and fucking himself on his fingers; the feel of Derek's fingers curling and pressing on Stiles' own inside Derek makes Stiles want to quiet the shake, ease that tension for Derek.

He grabs the wrist spreading Derek's ass and bends it upward to pin the wrist against the Derek's curved, muscle-hidden spine; Derek whines, a throaty, keening noise, as he clenches around Stiles' fingers and comes on Stiles' sheets. 

Stiles fucks him through it, his fingers easing up the strength of his press only slighty, continuing the minute circular motion until Derek starts to heave deep, sucking, desperate breaths. Stiles watches Derek's back muscles and his ribcage twitch, and he starts rubbing along the walls of Derek's ass gently. Now that the goal of Derek's Orgasm has been reached, he can think about the soft slickness of the skin inside, the slick flush of the fluttering pink opening, and the residual clenching and releasing of the ring of Derek's muscle against Stiles' fingers. Stiles sweeps a bit of Derek's come onto the fingers of his other hand, and he lazily uses his fingers and thumbs to pull against the surprisingly strong hole (or not-so-surprisly, because  _werewolf,_  seriously), and he thinks about how good it would feel clenching around his dick. Yep, he can't let this go three weeks again, that's for sure.

"What took you so long?" he asks Derek's back.

"MMmph, rrnf,  _nnnnfff_ , hhhngh"

Stiles chuckles, reclaiming the use of his hands to flip Derek onto his back then prod at his sides. And okay, so Derek's ticklish? He'll have to store that little tidbit for later use. God, will this man ever stop surprising him? 

"Really though, what was it? Want to try again now that you don't have a mouthful of bedding?"

Derek blushes and hesitates. 

"You're only eighteen, Stiles, and I--"

"Stop right there. I'm legally an adult. I know what I want. I'm not an idiot. Don't patronize me, or so help me god, I will punch you, regardless of the fact that I'd end up in pain instead of you. It's the principle of the thing."

"I know, I really do, but I just-- You're so young, and I'm so... not. You're going to college soon; you have so much potential, and you don't-- Stiles, You can't possibly think we would be good together. You _think_ you want me, but you don't see that I'm-- You deserve better than me. You deserve better than just... just sex."

"Are you fucking kidding me? Derek, I..." 

Stiles doesn't know how he wants to finish that sentence. Derek, I don't _deserve_ anyone. Derek, you're the best I could hope for. Derek, there's no such thing as  _better than you;_ it doesn't exist. Derek... But he knows Derek won't believe him, the martyr. Goddamnit. So all his _other_ reactions just spill from his lips.

"If you think that this was 'just sex', then you need your head checked, Derek Hale. You were my fucking first time, Derek, okay? I wouldn't-- I may be a horny little shit, but I'm not about to offer myself on a silver platter like I did tonight for just _anyone_. God. Just sex, my _ass_. Don't even try to give me that."

Derek looks shocked, like Stiles just turned  _his_ world on its head.

"It wasn't? You just... you never acted like. That. Around me. Until you found my... yeah. So I thought..."

Fucking _Derek_. Only Derek would have werewolf senses and  _not_ pick up on the fact that Stiles has basically been fucking  _swooning_ over a him since... well, since the beginnig _._ So, okay, maybe Stiles is a little more pissed off than he thought he would be, because his hands are doing that thing where they speak for themselves and he's talking so fast he can barely hear himself think before the words have already left his mouth. Just sex... Fuck. He thought... He was so sure Derek trusted him. Shit. 

"You thought that I was a teenager who couldn't resist the call of my hormones? That I would have reacted the same way if it had been anyone else? If that's what you think of me, if this was 'just sex'to you, then you can just fuck off, because I don't want-- I won't be your fuck buddy, or whatever, okay? Just... God. And fuck you, by the way, for trying to tell me what I do or don't 'think' that I want. I don't _think_ anything; I  _know_ that I want you. Not just  _sex with you_ , not just your mouth or your fingers or your anything. Just... just plain  _you._ I  _like_ you. It doesn't have to be more complicated than that."

"Oh." Stiles watches Derek as takes that in, tries to swallow around the truth of it.

"I don't want... That's why I was avoiding you. Because I thought it was just sex, and I didn't want that for you. But if you... Are you sure? Because I'm not-- I'm not a good person, Stiles."

"And I'm the pinnacle of innocence and sweetness myself? Everyone's a little fucked up, Derek; that's not exactly the end of the world. It's one of those enduring since-the-beginning-of-time kinds of facts."

He watches as Derek's eyebrows slowly pull apart from each other, as the set of his jaw loosens and becomes less jagged. He can  _see_ the relief on Derek's face, the hint of hope insinuating its way into the muscles of his cheeks. He refuses to let Derek talk himself out of that hope, so he says the first thing that comes to his mind.

"Come see the new Avenger's movie with me?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: Format Update :)

If you subscribed to this fic, this is a heads up that I switched from a chaptered fic format into a series. I feel like it fits better. Unsubscribe, switch your subscription, whatever you want to do, but since there _are_ subscriptions, I didn't want to switch my formatting without notifying my readers. :) Thanks for reading, everyone!!

**Author's Note:**

> I have two more one-shots in mind, in which the more serious stuff will happen; this one is mostly just setup. 
> 
> This is my first fic-writing endeavor since I was 13, on ff.net, writing about Harry and Ginny dealing with the Weasley’s reactions to their pre-epilogue engagement. So yeah, uh…. don’t judge me?? It’s been a while. Hence I’m SUPER NERVOUS ABOUT SEXFIC AUGH. I’m really sorry if this is horrible, cringe-worthy smutstuffs. I don’t even know. Oh, and this is unbeta'd. If you want to beta, let me know! You can never have too many eyes pre-reading your work. :)


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